The Beast
by Bambee CuddlyThings
Summary: Dark arts and even darker intentions come into play as unseen players prepare to deal their hand... And from the sins of a dying empire will come one card bearing the number of The Beast.
1. One Day, One Room

**One Day, One Room**

1879, Salon of Lord Baron Clostworth's Manor, Framwellgate Moor, England

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><p>"What does it mean?" big inquisitive eyes asked.<p>

Gentle sparks spittled from the flames, aroused by the wind wafting through the wide open window. Large red curtains flowed with the breeze, blocking a table decked with treasures from view. Said treasures were at least two centuries in make, oriental in origin, and widely known as Qingbai wares.

The young man ignored his companion's question for a moment as he strode over to investigate and, upon closer inspection of the vases, chose the centermost one as his favorite, naturally it being the most expensive. The 'clear blue white' Chinese bottle was an exact replica of the porcelain gifted to Benedict the Twelfth by the Emperor Huizong of Yuan and of Dadu.

In return for the gesture, the Pope sent ecclesiastical ambassadors to the Orient to act as spiritual guides— one of them being the famed adventurer de' Marignolli himself— and also to conduct the possibilities of a Franco-Mongolian alliance… an unlikely resolution to be sure but one of many to have been looked at during those medieval times. To ascertain the unlikely, the Mongols would be driven away roughly a decade later by the native Hans, which led to the establishment of the emperors of Ming. But we digress.

Above the fireplace was the object of inquisition by the first intruder, smaller of the two. It was a small statuette of a laughing woman, Grecian and garbed in naught but a cloth that wove around her lower extremities and made to stand on a marble pedestal on which the cryptic words in question were written.

"You have lived here all your life and you know not what they mean?"

The pretty mouth pouted and replied, "I only know what you allow me to know."

The young man smiled at this, amused at the numerous nuances of her words. An unusual pair in truth, their partnership existed only because of the young man`s mirth, rarely expressed as it was and even rarer to be seen.

It proved a standing joke among his peers in the club that his mood swings mirrored the tide and ebb of the vicious campaign currently being waged by the liberal Gladstone against his counterpart the Viscount Hughenden, Earl of Beaconsfield. So long as the young man maintained his morose temperament, Gladstone would ride the success of his Midlothian campaign to Prime Ministership and Chancellor of Her Majesty's Treasury; however, a brightening of his countenance would indicate the conservative Disraeli's star on the rise and the Viscount's ministry staying in governmental power. From which a goodly sum of money in the club would then exchange hands as bets to the results of the elections are reformed and remade.

"Fallaces sunt rerum species," he recited the words inscribed on the pedestal to the bewilderment of his youthful companion.

"Our esteemed Baron Clostworth's vanity will prove to be his downfall," he smiled grimly, "Nothing about this room is jovial."

He turned around and studied the room once more. Save for the curtains, an impressive variety of exotic treasures in some form or shape— vases from medieval China, white tiger rugs from Bengal, fetishes from the Andes— occupied every nook and cranny of the salon. Each one undoubtedly had its own history to be told and thus would carry a conversation between host and visitor well into the night.

The lone oddity was situated partly behind a spear-wielding suit of Hamburgian armor, a replica perhaps of some late Frankish emperor's ceremonial attire. On the wall, almost obscured by the shining knight's presence, was the item: a frameless portrait, hanging only by a simple string. Aquarelle, as the French called it; the style of art was achieved via the marriage of 'paintcakes'— procured from a 'colourman' specialist— and water. The use of watercolours in a young girl's education was a sign of good upbringing, or at the very least, a haughty aristocratic background.

"It is mine… I think," said the girl uncertainly, whilst following the young man's gaze.

"But of course it is. Your childish finger-painting leaves much to be desired. I can only assume your governess was the last on the list of potential tutors. Understandable; considering how the baron tends to ill regard people he comes into contact with, most especially those whom he shares a filial connection."

He glanced meaningfully at the girl and the latter shivered. Hands in his pockets, the young man then navigated the room with its myriad of wonders until he reached the painting and the suit. Ignoring the other, he came up to the small canvas and studied it with a practiced eye. Without a doubt the work of an amateur, but the canvas itself was in fact not made of common cloth. Much to his chagrin, expensive vellum was used as support for the painting.

"Ah, many wrongs were made in this house," he said sadly while caressing the painting, "One of them being this horrendous picture you've fashioned in the likeness of… Is this supposed to be your mother?"

"Yes! She is—"

"—the only happy affair in your sordid life," he finished the sentence, looking away from the painting with distaste, "She is also a symbol of mockery in this room and, indeed, this whole household."

"The words, by the way, are from the Spaniard Seneca: The appearances of things are deceptive," he said before taking action.

He shook loose the spear held close to him and started using it to pry against the corner where the wall with the painting meets the floor, working his way upwards through the seams of the wall's sections. With an _a-ha_ from him and several moments later, the spear's sharpened tip slid through a gap between two of the wall's panelling. With minimal exertion he jerked the spear's length away from him. Behind the wall something clicked in response.

After quietly replacing the spear back to its original owner's grip, he leaned forward and gently placed his weight against the wall, which easily opened much like any door. A short stone hallway revealed itself indicating that the secret room and its passageway were carved right into the manor's stone supports. A feat likely to have been done when the manor once was a fortified barracks during the time of Henry the Fourth, when the Northumbrian lords rebelled against his rule, only to be subdued in large part by the king's son, the scarred Henry of Monmouth of Shakespearean fame.

Centuries later to more present times, and after numerous reconstructions, the former barracks now stood as the most expansive and lavish abode that could be found between Newcastle Upon Tyne and Stockton-on-Tees, rivalled only perhaps by the palaces in London and Edinburgh.

It was only natural that a former military structure sported a few mysteries. Add to that an arrogant baron who holds ties to the world's most secretive order, and you are guaranteed to find a secret room or two.

Stale air within clashed with the cool breeze coming from without and the oil-fed wicker lights placed spaciously along the hallway flickered and danced.

"A most ominous welcome," the young man remarked as he stepped inside, "The mistress of the house would behold to no short amount of surprise should she learn of this. In fact, I should pen her a small anonymous letter before I craftily make my leave of the estate. "

"Most definitely if I find traces of what the charlatans at the Temple think this room to be," he chuckled darkly, much to the consternation of his little companion who clung to the end tails of his coat.

The short hallway exited into a wide octagonal room whose ceiling reached all the way to the manor's second floor. Two lanterns, positioned one above the other, burned brightly on every side. Opposite the hall's entryway was a bookshelf devoid of books save one, which lay at the topmost shelf. With glee, the young man ignored everything else as he strode purposefully for the book.

"La Fata Morgana's grimoire, the Book of Spells," he said triumphantly as he flipped through the pages. After a few moments of intense reading, he slammed the book shut with both hands, placed it in one of the folds of his jacket, and turned to face his companion who had elected to stay before the hallway's entrance. Only then did he notice the giant diagram that occupied the whole floor. An amalgamation of two circles and two triangles, the symbol was crudely etched with some yellowish substance. At the very center was a large blackened spot, likely left there by a burning brazier now absent.

The girl ignored the diagram however as her attention was fixed on two distinctive items placed against the wall and close to the hall entrance.

"Henry… Is this where I was born?" the girl asked fearfully of her guardian.

The first of the items was a pram, or a so called child's carriage, which was upturned with its wheels to the air. The second was a young girl's bib left haphazardly on the floor and accessorized with frilly designs and the Baron's distinct family initials.

"No child," the young man whispered softly to the empty room, "this is where you died."

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><p>.<p>

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_Note:_

_Thanks for readin', babs and babettes. This story is set about a decade before the Guy Ritchie movie of 2009 and will revolve around The Temple of the Four Orders._

_Note Added:_

_Since people keep wondering, I thought I'd expand more on what junk I've written here. Yes, it's a mystery where you have a crime, a criminal, and a protagonist hot on the trail. No, there won't be any appearances by Holmes.. It's just Blackwood ten years younger. And his pops. All other characters will be made up by me.. _but I intend for the story to try to capture that Sherlockian spirit, if that makes any sense_. But there are no Robert Downey's or Jude Law's here... sorry ladies.  
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_Lastly: No, it is not a tragedy.  
><em>


	2. Resignation

**Resignation**

Sunderland Highway, the route to Durham, England

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><p>The carriage rumbled past rolling hills and fields of red Durbyshire poppies on its way to Sunderland Bridge. After the bridge it would come within Browny's and Meadowfield's expanses, each with their own natural gardens waiting to be appreciated. A warm friendly sun completed the idyllic setting as shafts of golden sunlight entered through the carriage's open-curtained windows.<p>

Of the three genteel travellers inside the carriage, only one paid attention to the relaxing view outside while her two companions prattled on in heated argument.

"You are a churlish boorish savage!" the feminine of the two exclaimed, "Tis a wonder how a cad like you could have come from such esteemed breeding."

The other, a slight gentleman named Rotherham, only smiled in return. "And you my lady are the Venus of oration, a master of discussion, the Casanova of banter," he said and his smile widened, "and should my good father learn the truth of your black heartedness and venomous tongue, he would rightly kick you out of Durham and back to your mother, to whom you would have to explain how you managed to once again confound her not-so-inconsiderable matchmaking skills."

His red faced adversary could only glare in response before unceremoniously slamming her heel on Rotherham's toes.

"Mercy! For the love of God, Claire! Will you tell your charge to stop doing that, my shoes are scuffed enough as they are," Rotherham pleaded to the other young woman who was trying very hard to keep her attention on anything that wasn't within the carriage. Failing at that, the woman named Claire sighed and directed her gaze to the fuming blonde seated to her right.

Placing her hand on the other's arm, she spoke gently, "Save your energy for later, Elisabet. The days before your debut are going to be the most arduous. There are many rehearsals to be had and you will do your delicate face no favor by indulging your temper."

When Rotherham grinned smugly at the now sullen blonde, Claire continued, "And you can ignore Sir William's remarks. His father would whip him as if he were once more a child and in front of everyone if he returns home empty handed, proving himself incapable of completing such a simple task as escorting two frail women to Durham."

Elisabet's face immediately lit up while William's formed into a grimace, as if feeling whip lashes on his behind. "You paint a gruesome picture," he said sullenly, "But not an unlikely one."

"Frankly I'm surprised my father hasn't chosen you as the main debutante for this upcoming ball. Lord knows you made an impression on him the first time he met you in London," he continued.

Elisabet giggled as all three recalled the unfortunate incident eight years ago. Lord Thomas Rotherham had been visiting Elisabet's father at the time since the two shared business ventures. They were conversing by the dining table, finishing up on a light lunch. Unbeknownst to them there were two little thieves cavorting in the pantry in the nearby kitchen.

Apparently seeking the day's hidden dinner desserts, they had instead stumbled upon a large bag of milled flour which fell over them, contents and everything, as they tried to reach up for it from its high perch. Considering themselves compromised, they were determined to avoid the wrath of the household cook who was outside by the kitchen's doors; so they burst out of the pantry, past the kitchen, and into the only other viable exit: the dining room.

Suffice it to say that it was no mean feat by the doctor who was summoned to revive the fainted Lord Rotherham and then to convince him that the ghosts he had just seen come tumbling towards him were not there to get him and were in fact not ghosts at all. Elisabet's father found that day a source of amusement for many years— especially as Rotherham grew to become one of his closer friends— but his wife however did not. Elisabet was banished to her room later that night, without dinner or dessert. Young Claire meanwhile received the same punishment but was also appointed apprentice to the cook who made no pains over the duration of her apprenticeship in hiding his immense dislike for the little troublemaker.

"Because," Claire began as she pointedly ignored the now openly laughing Elisabet beside her, "I am not the daughter of the richest banker in London and Brittany; I am also not the one turning eighteen next week; and I am not your mother's daughter." She directed the last words to Elisabet who quickly shut up.

"My kind mother would marry me off to a toothless gentleman of the over-the-hill gang if it meant any sort of advancement for the family's name," Elisabet muttered.

"Of course she might just be doing it in order to get rid of you dear sister," she hugged her lifelong companion.

In truth, not sisters by blood, the two women have been nonetheless inseparable for most of their entire lives. Claire's father, the Honorable Archibald Hemingway had, over the course of his life, held the post of Director, Proprietor, and Governor of Her Majesty's British East India Company. Strong in every which way, Hemingway grew up with his feet firmly planted on a merchant ship's main deck. He would travel the whole width of the world until finally settling down in the dominion of the British Raj and under the employ of the Bahadur Company of Trade.

A resolute man, he showed finesse in dealing with the more tender points of business and his rapid rise was a shining star against the backdrop of the Company's clear descent into dilapidation caused in part by the Sepoy mutinies. His steady hand maintained the tea trade between the Indies, St Helena, and then westwards to the New World. Such was the respect he commanded in the colonies that his daughter Claire's christening was attended by the political gentleman and ornithologist Octavian Hume, the Vedic Dayanand Saraswati who would found the Arya Samaj faith, and even a few of the northern Delhi and Rajputana princes who had set aside their differences for the sake of an alien practice based on a religion that they did not follow.

Respect could only shield you from so much however, and he was eventually forced to send away his wife and daughter as the colonies grew volatile once more. After several correspondences with an old banker friend back in England, he put his family on a ship and stood on the docks waving goodbye until they were no more than a speck in the horizon. Unfortunately, the mother would not survive the trip to England. And it was only when Claire turned fifteen and after ten years of waiting would she read of the East Trading Company's dissolution by the government. With this news came the solemn realization that she would never see her father again.

Noticing that her friend had lapsed into gloomy reminiscing, Elisabet broke the silence, "Who's to say you won't be the star of this ball, Lady Hemingway of India and the Orient. I dare say you've broken enough hearts since your coming of age." She smiled maliciously at William who only glared darkly in return. One of Claire's many past admirers, William had settled to being Claire's closest friend, second only to Elisabet. He had long claimed to being quite satisfied with his spatial relation to the Smith household's newest ward, though Elisabet knew better. The son of Lord Rotherham often sought to find every excuse that allowed him to extend and amplify his numerous visits to London.

"Besides, there will be about a dozen lords and lords' sons attending the ball and I need only pick one. The rest," Elisabet's smile widened, "are up for grabs."

William cleared his throat and said sharply, "I think it lies at your father's behest as to who Claire will be promised to. And he is not about to let the last of his two daughters out of his sight and into the embrace of some dandified fop all too willing to take hold of her considerable inheritance from her late father."

"Not that your heritage is your most attracting feature," he added quickly when Claire's eyes narrowed, "That is I do not even consider it as one of your attractions."

"I mean to say, you have other more alluring singularities that make men be beholden to you," he started stammering, to the delight of the blonde across him, "I speak beyond, more than just the physical of course—"

"Thank you, Will," Claire interjected to the relief of the other, "But Elisabet's father and I have already long come to an agreement about my future."

"Pray tell what sort of an agreement?" William asked quickly, if somewhat too anxiously in Elisabet's opinion.

Claire smiled and said, "Only that in return for keeping his daughter Elisabet well behaved at least until she is married, he has agreed to keep Madame Smith's manipulative hands away from me and my deceased father's estate, now likely grown fourfold in value over the years while under his expert care."

"As for my future security," she continued as William listened with bated breath, "I'll have you know I've been having intimate meetings with a certain person in Cambridgeshire. Once I've finally disposed of my troublesome sister here, I intend to move in at a shopkeeper's attic, which has a lovely view of the Granta and the Holy Sepulchre's Round Church."

William could only stare at her with astonishment and dismay. He looked questioningly at Elisabet who barked a laugh.

"This person who has allegedly caught Claire's elusive affection is far from noble," Elisabet spoke as she ran a finger up Claire's chin while maintaining her gaze on William, "A fanatic and an anarchist I would say, even an enemy of your father, I believe."

"And does this madman have a name?" William half shouted as he rose from his seat as far up as the carriage would allow him to.

"Mad? Perhaps so, but she is no man," Elisabet replied noncommittally. William sat back down, his face uncomprehending as various situations flitted through his mind. When his brows knotted in disheartenment, Elisabet could hold it in no longer and she burst out laughing. Even Claire ventured a smile as William's expression betrayed his roguish thoughts.

"Her name is Anne Clough and she is the principal of a school in Cambridge," Claire explained, "It's the second of its kind, Girton being the first, and she has expressed her interest in taking me under her wing as part of the faculty."

"The women's College?" William said incredulously, "But they shouldn't— you shouldn't—"

The two women looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. Unable to say anything else, he raised his hands in defeat and said exasperatedly, "Oh you two do as you wish. At least, I suppose you won't be attracting any young whippersnappers while amongst those mad suffragists."

Elisabet stretched her limbs in unladylike fashion, "Why should we accept such a scripted future? I dare say if any woman gets even the slightest chance to escape marriage and live her own life, then she should grab it by its handles and tug as hard as she could manage!"

William regarded her with a painful glance before looking outside the window. "This school for girls will never take. Women are much too fragile and can easily be taken advantage of by less than savoury men if left without a protector," he mumbled broodingly.

Elisabet giggled at him. "Oh cheer up, William. At least I'm not the one escaping to that school. Think of the trouble that would cause amongst our families if I did. Claire has yet to write her fate, but I am already resigned to my own," she sighed and also fixed her gaze on the moving landscapes outside, "Not as a child shall we again behold her; for when with raptures wild, in our embraces we again enfold her, she will not be a child…"

"…But a fair maiden, in her father's mansion, clothed with celestial grace; and beautiful with all the soul's expansion, shall we behold her face," Claire replied softly in melody.

The carriage rumbled past the bridge and onwards to its destination: Reverend Percival Spearman Wilkinson's 'Oswald House', the second most beautiful abode in the city overshadowed only by its rival, the Baron Clostworth's manor situated a little further north. The Oswald House was leased to Her Majesty's Solicitor General for England and Wales, Sir Thomas Rotherham. The Solicitor General was the host of the much anticipated debutante ball, a dying tradition in truth but nonetheless still practiced by those with filial ties to the older generation. Though numerous ladies of East Anglia and York have arrived or are arriving for the ball, it is known but left unspoken by many of the nobles that the main prize of the event has yet to arrive.

The young bachelorette will be arriving from the south and through her will come the key to the wealthy family banks of Smith, Payne & Smiths. Though Elisabet's family name is that of a commoner, her family's riches have nonetheless attracted many nobles waddling waist deep in debt or those simply greedy for more wealth. To add to her credibility, she is to be accompanied by her lifelong companion, the daughter of the Hero Archibald Hemingway, and Sir Thomas' own son, the student William Rotherham.


	3. Yellow Means Fire

**Yellow Means Fire  
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Several Days Later, Owengate Almshouse, Durham University Town, England

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><p>Bishop Langley of Durham constructed the original building in 1414. In fact, his coat of arms could still be seen to this day, though it was his successor who had supervised their carving on the replacement building's walls more than two centuries later. A respectful nod to Langley's efforts of furthering education among the masses.<p>

The original was one building housing two schools: The School for Learning the Rudiments of Grammar and The School for Plainsong and the Art of Writing. A venerable institution indeed, it would eventually be built over by the architect John Langstafe in the mid-17th century. The new structure came to be known as Bishop John Cosin's Almshouses. But since the Bishop held much respect to his predecessor, he made sure that the building also allowed room for the continuation of the two institutions of grammar and music. And so, even though Langley's building was long gone, his endowments remained.

Fast forward about two more centuries in the future, the site would once again go through a tremendous change. The universities started encroaching Palace Green and Cosin's Almshouses would eventually fall under their influence. The building turned into a housing for students and in exchange, several other almshouses were built a bit further away at Dun Cow Lane, Owengate, and down by the river Wear. Each almshouse served the exact same purpose as Cosin's with its standard eight 'pure' inhabitants forever bound to a life of celibacy and meditation.

"…and that, in answer to your question, is why we are made to gather here at this ungodly hour when the morning dews have yet to glisten. With the current occupants busy at the cathedral, we are afforded this place for our secretive discussion. For, aside from thieves and murderers, only religious zealots would have the mind to wake up this early before dawn to begin their duties. "

"So does that make us thieves then?" asked Simon.

Montalban chuckled and said, "No, young Falconer. But murderers you are. And murderers with a purpose always conduct their businesses in the dead of night. Especially when said murderers are two of the most prominent nobles in the country. You erase the Temple's mistakes but they in turn cannot erase yours should you two get caught. Not to mention you would be missing out on the grand ball soon to happen."

Simon sighed and regarded the Spymaster smiling before him. The lone candle on the middle of the table illuminated the three men sitting around it, casting shadows around the stone walls of the almshouse's communal area. Montalban was dressed in a simple frock much like the monks and nuns living in the almshouse. Though he was not one of the eight, he had once told Simon that he was their caretaker of sorts, receiving a small allowance of a pound every quarter of the year for being so.

Simon would have believed him had they not met at other unusual places for their meetings prior to this one. Their very first meeting with the Temple's Spymaster was at the university's library, where Montalban had then claimed to be the Palace Green's Groundsman, in charge of delegating the Green's lawn for the students' Paille maille games. The pastime, more commonly known as croquet, was not the most popular of sports but it was one of the few wherein women could participate, which led to many amorous young students frequenting the Green.

Ever since then, the three had met at various places, all within the University, with Montalban claiming to have some form of responsibility allowing him access to such locations. It was only when they had met under Prebends' Bridge where the Spymaster claimed to be the direct descendant of George Nicholson— the bridge's architect— that Simon finally realized that he was being made a fool of.

"Such an ungrateful job you being the Temple's Inquisitors, but someone has to weed out the unfaithful from the flock," the Spymaster shrugged under Simon's scrutiny, "Which brings us back to our subject of the night, Lord Baron Clostworth's current whereabouts and his intentions. As to the first, your guess is as good as mine. The second however is something we can deduce from both your past investigations."

"What of the symbol drawn on the chamber in his manor?" Simon queried, "The four shapes allude to a deeper meaning seemingly lost to me." The symbol was two circles, one within the other, and in between them were two triangles arranged over each other in order to form a six-pointed star.

"They pertain to The Scale; the equalizer in all things. A man's life is held in tandem by the four aspects: the Physical, the Mental, the Spiritual, and the Emotional. His very being is maintained and preserved by all four. Should the balance be disturbed… Well, his life would be forfeit. But in the occult sense, he would cease to be himself and enter a whole different plane of existence."

"So he risks death in order to turn into what exactly?"

"A chimera, in truth. A blacksmith becomes Hercules; a fervent priest becomes a saint; a studious scholar changes the world; and a scorned woman turns into a murderer. As to what the renegade Clostworth could have gained by taking the shortcut of sacrificing his daughter, I cannot be certain," Montalban cleared his throat and stared intently at both men across the table, "But the symbol as you described it was drawn using yellow paintcake and yellow is ever associated as one of the Four Humors coursing through our body, the others being red, black, and blue. _Chole Cambia_, as Hippocrates would have it known, is the bile secreted by the body's gallbladder. This yellow fluid signifies a 'Choleric' temperament, most true with the daughter since I recall her being very energetic and passionate in every little thing she did, all for the sake of gaining the attention of her parents."

Simon sighed once again and glanced at his companion who remained silent throughout this whole conversation. Both men, including another currently absent, formed up the Inquisitor branch of the Temple of the Four Orders. The trio had the ungodly job of rooting out and dealing with the black magic practitioners among the Temple's considerable membership and sometimes even made to hunt down those outside of the order. In simpler terms, they were witch hunters, eradicating practitioners of blood magic and anything else deemed unholy by the order. Their latest and current target was Baron Clostworth, whose apparent change in mood and thought over the past year had made his colleagues in the Temple suspicious of him. Suspicions that were now seemingly justified.

"The yellow stands for many things," Montalban was saying, "And in reference to my earlier wordings, many gypsies often identify a man with a yellow aura as having abundant intellectual acumen. Perhaps this is what Clostworth gained from his daughter's murder."

"The Mental Aspect," Simon muttered as he stood up and stretched. He walked over to a window and peered outside. Over the nearby cathedral's towers, violet and red streaks were slowly creeping skywards.

"I don't suppose the Baron received some form of clarity out of this procedure? If the ritual worked then his knew-found sagacity could surely have afforded him a moment of remorse."

Montalban simply shrugged and replied, "There is a fine line between genius and madness as they say. And even if it did not work, if he is indeed too far gone in his insanity, then he need only convince himself that the ritual was a success and he will continue on to the other three steps of the unholy rite. Three more steps to becoming the ultimate being and master of the four foundations of life."

"It's safe to assume then that the Temple's strongest practitioner turned rogue will commit three more murders, specific and calculated," Simon said after a moment's silence.

"He'd likely have committed and will commit more," Montalban shrugged again, "But those aren't the murders you need seek; you should only be concerned about the ones that matter."

When the other two looked at him questioningly, he nodded and explained, "First direct your attention to that book from which the process is written. Only the witch Morgan le Fay could device such a cruel ritual. As her name denotes, she is a fairy, a pure born child of Nature. Her spell book speaks of balance too, that Nature always takes as much as it gives, and that through Nature anything can change from one equal form into another.

You see, each of the Four Humors is connected to the Four Elements: Air, Fire, Water, and Earth. As a crude explanation, consider these elements as highways— made so by properly following Morgan's ritual— from which the life energies of one person can transfer to another. Take Clostworth's departed daughter, for instance."

Simon swallowed and closed his eyes, not wanting to hear the rest of Montalban's words.

"Recall your other discovery in his sacrificial chamber. Everything is connected and balanced on The Scale. According to Hippocratic medicine, yellow cambium is married to the Order of Fire and the black spot you found proves my hypothesis: For the sake of extracting her yellow energies via this ritual, the child— God embrace her soul— was put to the stake and burned alive."


	4. A Twirl of Skirts

**A Twirl of Skirts**

Owengate Road, Durham University Town, England

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><p>Henry Blackwood shivered as he stepped outside after bidding goodbye to the other two. Montalban's words had shaken both visitors and he knew that Simon needed some time alone to settle his mind. His brother by half, Henry was well aware of Simon's thought processes and the latter can be very easily overcome with emotion when it comes to the suffering of innocents. They had separated outside, with one going south and the other continuing northwards to Palace Green, the university's central landmark of sorts.<p>

The sky had now taken a bright orange palette and stall vendors were already pushing their carts up Owengate road. The marketplace was situated on a borough up north though it was formerly plunked right on Palace Green. The market in 'Le place', as the two-acre land was called in French, was surrounded by the Prince-Bishop's Castle, his Mint, Cosin's original almshouse, offices of the Chancery, Exchequer, and Receipt, and lastly, the Cathedral. That was until the Bishop Ranulf Flambard shooed the vendors away for fear of the church being periled by fire and—God forbid— human filth.

_And now your little place of worship is invaded by youngsters more keen to further their knowledge than their faith_, Henry silently said to the long dead Bishop. He walked through the wind tunnel of a road and past the site where the gate, from which Owengate derived its name, originally stood. The Palace Green spread out before him and the historic buildings rose up in their brilliance. Henry however, ignored the sight as he continued walking until he reached past Le Northgate.

He had read and reread Morgan's grimoire and was well versed with the ritual that Montalban had mentioned. The method was clear but the victims were not. Clostworth was a cruel man even to those not of the Temple. He may simply have chosen to murder his daughter just to spite his wife, the poor woman. Henry had at first considered Lady Clostworth as the next victim but eventually discarded the possibility after mulling over the baron's deterioration of character. The baron would have her wallow in grief and shame rather than give her the quick exit which is death. _Indeed, his next victim will be someone of the Temple for his madness will not allow him to hesitate in inflicting pain unto those he once called family_, Henry thought grimly.

By the time he reached the marketplace borough in his slow brooding pace, birds were already chirping on the trees and the sun was fully risen, giving warmth to what was shaping up to be a beautiful morning. Stalls were set up and hawkers were busy ensnaring the early morning shoppers. Henry ignored calls for his attention as he glanced distractedly about, seeing Clostworth's maniacal face on every person that turned towards his direction. He sighed and shook his head, considering himself no better than Simon in ordering his thoughts.

He spied a stall bearing the sign of a bookstore he often frequented and he ambled over. No books were being sold but vials of ink and various scrolls were on display. Henry picked up a human skull and regarded it with passing interest as he recalled the remaining stock of writing supplies in his study's lectern.

"A beauty that one, sir," the young stall owner smiled toothlessly at him, "I cleaned and bleached it with chlorine myself, sir. Used to belong to a poor chap who met his end in the mines yonder west."

Henry regarded the toothless youth for a moment before replying, "And how is your master the bookkeeper, young Sam? I trust you've been learning your letters well?"

The vendor showed surprise for being known and a little discomfort for not recognizing the gentleman before him. He then smiled wider than before, showing more gums and still no teeth.

"Very good sir," he nodded vigorously, "Master Rake has gotten me to learning my numbers, sir. Maybe he'll even be sending me to the university soon."

Henry smiled humorlessly back at him and he put the skull back down, "I highly doubt that considering the atrocity you've just committed to this skull."

Young Sam's smile vanished as he looked uncomprehendingly back at Henry who was shaking his head.

"Have you never heard of maceration, boy? All you needed was fresh water to clean the specimen. This bleach you used for cleansing has permanently damaged the bone to the point of it being chalky and fragile," he rubbed his thumb and fingers together, revealing white chalk between them.

The young stall keeper cowered as Henry continued his lecture, "I do recall your master having a colony of kaphra beetles on display behind the counter at his store. Did you think he simply had them there for decoration? The little buggers are—"

"Dermestidae. I've seen them at work at the university's museum."

Henry turned around towards the direction of the intruding voice. Soft yet also firm and confident, the voice clearly belonged to a woman. A billowing dress colored white and light orange, along with a matching bonnet, confirmed this. Under the flowered hat, long strands of silky hair flowed down and behind the ears, ending in slight curls around the shoulders and the swanlike neck.

What struck Henry the most however were the bright grey eyes that were staring vividly at him. The intensity of the woman's stare made him look down instead at the latter's full lips which were curved into a slight smile.

"Pardon?" Henry finally said, not knowing what to make of this situation.

Those wondrous lips smiled once more before opening to reply, "Your little buggers. I saw them scouring an animal's bone at the museum when I made my visit there. The curator was kind enough to provide me with a little lecture on their prowess in cleaning endoskeletons."

Henry opened his mouth to reply but no words came out. He could only stare at the enigma standing before him as the latter continued speaking.

"And it was a few other things I saw in the museum from which I espoused my reasoning as to why you should apologize to young master Sam here," and the lady inclined her head towards the open mouthed stall keeper who was staring at her with watery eyes, "For I'm certain that he meant to use chlorine on the skull quite on purpose."

Henry shook his head irritably, both in disagreement and in an attempt to calm his uncertainty down.

"To bleach it in chlorine would result in—"

"—eventual degradation to bone meal," the lady interrupted once more with her disarming smile, "More precisely, into phosphorous which I saw in varying forms at the museum. Considering the other items being sold in this stall here, Sam's target buyers are clearly students. I would have taken you for one but you are probably some three years past your graduation date already. Possibly a teacher then but you should still have known that the students purchase these bone specimens exactly in this ruined condition. I spied a very interesting garden right behind the museum where I suspect agricultural studies are conducted. And do you know what phosphorus is good for, sir?"

Henry stared at her for a long while before finally responding curtly, "As fertilizers, for plants."

The lady smiled her brightest smile yet and gave Sam, who clutched his chest, a wink before walking away. Henry could only watch dumbfounded at the retreating back. With a clearing of his throat, he glared at young Sam who once more had a massive grin on his face before going after the lady who was about to disappear into the growing crowd of shoppers.

"Wait!" he shouted as he matched stride with the woman who kept on walking, "Are you the Chancellor's daughter? Perhaps one of the teacher trainees in St Hild's? I would think you someone's maidservant at Castle College but as I recall only males are allowed into their great halls."

The lady giggled but she kept her gaze forward. "Do you think me so ill dressed to be nothing more than some pompous noble son's wet-nurse?" she asked as she stopped in front of a fruit stall. Bringing forward the small basket under her arm, she started perusing the fresh goods on display.

"That is not what I meant," Henry replied, "I'm simply making conjectures as to your true background." The lady selected a few small apples and a brace of redcurrants, likely to be used as jelly and served with lamb. She placed the items in her basket and made to pay for them when Henry interjected by bringing out his wallet. When the transaction was done, the lady said nothing as she continued walking again with Henry struggling to keep up amidst the crowd.

"The truth? I am a cook for Sir William Crawford's household," the lady spoke up as she stopped at another stall selling fresh bouquets of colorful flowers.

She stooped down to smell a stem of Grass-of-Parnassus before speaking, "I have been the union President's chef ever since the miners organised their first union Gala at Wharton."

She stood up straight and looked at the flower with a frown as if uncertain whether to buy it or not. Henry decided for her when he gathered several of the Cumberland flowers in one hand. After paying the stall vendor, he inserted the bouquet on the lady's basket and the couple started walking again.

"Forgive me but I think you a liar, my lady," Henry said quietly beside her.

"Oh?" the lady asked with mock consternation on her face, "Do tell why."

"For one thing, the first miner's union Gala was held eight years ago, which would make you no more than a slip of a girl at the time and thus highly unlikely to be Sir Crawford's chief cook. Another thing is the fact that your employer and his whole household are in London at this very moment, as Sir Crawford is currently bidding for a seat in the Parliament. I find it a trifle unusual for you to be left behind here instead of being there with him. Lastly, and the most telling of all, is your cooking skill which I surmise to be average at best and nonexistent at worst."

When the lady finally turned her head to look at him with a frown, Henry gestured at the basket draped over her arm. "Your choice of gooseberries was in poor taste. Not only did you completely ignore the box of albino currants, which are far more superior to the red ones, you also chose berries that are far too ripe and in season. By the time they are served as condiments they would already be alkalizing and would thusly be of more use as medication instead of food garnish."

The silence stretched a few more steps before finally being broken by the lady's musical laughter. She stopped and spun to face Henry directly, "I am at your mercy sir, for I am indeed a liar. I couldn't cook a single dish even if my life depended on it."

"So you concede defeat," Henry crossed his arms, "Who and what are you then?"

The lady smiled and leaned forward with her hands and the basket behind her. "I am Cleopatra and Aphrodite, Mohini and Delilah. I arrived with an empty basket and now I leave with a full one at the cost of your own curiosity. I am a woman, good sir. And a lesson you should heed."

With a twirl of white and orange skirts and another peal of melodious laughter, she vanished into the crowd leaving a red-faced Henry standing in bewilderment in the middle of the street. He stood there for several long moments before finally looking down at his hand which held his wallet, now thinner and lighter than it used to be. Shaking his head and considering his lesson learned, he scratched absentmindedly at the funny tingling sensation in his chest.


	5. Guardians of the World

**Guardians of the World**

One day later at the eve of the Ball, Oswald House Manor, Durham, England

* * *

><p>Lord Thomas Rotherham adjusted his collar for the umpteenth time. The night breeze did little to diffuse his discomfort as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Beside him, Montalban was standing quite calmly in his dappled suit.<p>

"I thought you said you would wear something nice," Sir Thomas grumbled.

Julio Herensuge Montalban smiled enigmatically, "Our exalted leader will not mind; a politician always appreciates duplicity. Failing that, I can always blame my unpreparedness to his all too sudden announcement of attending the ball."

"Then you should rightly blame his adversary who is making a ruckus up north. A litany of fiery speeches, as it were. Gladstone continues to rant about the Ottoman Empire's atrocities in Bulgaria and electors are starting to listen."

"Ah, our country's oriental ally and their infamous bashi-bazouks. What can you expect out of an armed force that lives off plunder? The liberals have the right of it I would say. The smell of massacre still perfumes the ruined villages of Panagjuriste and Perushtitza."

"An unfortunate incident but necessary if only to placate the Ottomans. Abdul Hamid's suspension of his country's parliament is a foolish move. His days on the throne are numbered and unfortunately, we need him sitting strong on it in order to prevent the Austro-Hungarians from advancing any further into the Slavic lands."

"A masterful move; the peace meeting at Berlin. Chancellor Bismarck had the better of all of us when he rearranged the Balkans. He sows the seeds of revolution in Constantinople, Greece, and Bulgaria; draws Germany and Austria-Hungary closer together; and humiliates the Russians to the point of making null their victory of yesteryear."

Sir Thomas sighed and nodded, "A united central Europe over which we have absolutely no influence whatsoever. Bismarck is a master indeed. He gains much from the structured chaos he engineered in the Balkans while it is left to us to clean up the mess."

"Us being the English or the Temple?" Montalban smiled again, "The Four Orders need only give its assent and Alexander the Liberator would mobilize the whole of Russia, Finland, and Poland. He would be in Prussian and Crimean lands in a matter of weeks."

Sir Thomas gave Montalban a dark look and was about to reply when he was interrupted by the sound of hooves, signalling the arrival of a carriage. Pages ran forward to open the door and settle the horses. The Solicitor General tampered with his collar one more time before moving forward to greet the tall, gaunt man that alighted from the carriage.

"Welcome to Durham, Lord Master," Sir Thomas revealed his Temple insignia, sewn on the lapel of his coat, before bowing deferentially at the new arrival, "The Lords were pleasantly surprised by the recent addition of your name to the guest list."

The second most powerful person in the United Kingdom chuckled and spoke with a soft mannered voice, "You need not be indirect, old friend. I know my decision to attend this gathering has set your household in an uproar. For that I apologize but my presence here may help allay the fears some of our brethren in the Temple have been having."

Sir Thomas only nodded as Montalban stepped forward to greet the Prime Minister who complemented the Spymaster on his style of dress. Once all formalities were done, the three entered the Oswald House Manor, passed through several hallways, and entered a side room, taking care not to be seen by any of the guests. A butler materialized out of nowhere with a busy tray on one hand and a humidor on the other. Only when he had left, and the three were alone once more, did they start speaking again.

"I trust the banker's daughter has arrived?" Disraeli asked, filling his belly with his favored cheap malt named after and made popular by the human beasts of burden that traversed the streets and rivers of London.

"Indeed and she does not disappoint," remarked Montalban who also held a glass of Porter in his hand, "We'll have the Smith family joining our ranks soon enough. There have also been rumors of a possible amalgamation between their banks and Union Bank of London. If we can somehow work the Temple into the Smith banks before that happens…"

"A clever coup I must say. Your brilliance shines once again with this marriage agreement of yours, Julio. If everything goes according to plan with this ball, we would be financially well positioned entering the new century."

Montalban nodded at the complement before turning his attention to Sir Thomas, "And which of your three sons have you decided to receive the hand of our precious lady?"

Sir Thomas frowned at him and replied icily, "Only one of them is my son, Spymaster. But of all three you speak of, I'm considering having Lord Blackwood partnered with Miss Elisabet. My son, Will seems to be infatuated with some other and Lord Simon Falconer does not have the penchant of dislike that Blackwood holds for us and all things Temple. Perhaps a different and more feminine sort of connection with our order would solve Henry's issues of loyalty."

"And with one stone we kill two birds," Disraeli remarked, "And just like that I should be able to continue on with my journey to Scotland come the morrow. Lord Granville and Lord Hartington have been showing signs of willingness on their part to back down and downright give the Prime Minister seat to Gladstone should the voters wish it."

Sir Thomas noted the disdain in Disraeli's voice, knowing full well of the historic rivalry between the latter and Lord Gladstone. The two have been at each other's throats for years now and things seem to be finally coming to a head what with the upcoming election. Even though Disraeli had the personal support of the Queen, Gladstone was gradually gaining the support of a more powerful ally: the people.

"What of the Russians?" Sir Thomas asked, gently steering the subject away to calmer waters.

"The Ottomans keep them at bay, with our support of course. Not to mention that Emperor Alexander is of the Temple himself. Peace should prevail once more in that region provided that Gladstone does not incite another war with his hate speeches."

"I hear rumors that the exalted Emperor's days are numbered, that assassins leave and enter his palace freely," Montalban said nonchalantly.

"Rumors and nothing more, we will protect him," Disraeli waved his hand absently, "Our problems are on track to being solved and the Temple's position as the world's Guardian remains strong, gentlemen. Now let us go attend this party before our guests start to wonder about us. Along the way you can tell me about this problem regarding Sir Abel."

Sir Thomas nodded as all three stood up and headed for the door, "Baron Abel Clostworth's whereabouts are currently unknown though I have placed our two Inquisitors hot on his trail. And now that William has returned, he can join them in the pursuit."

Disraeli shook his head, "Have you any leads as to when and why he grew mad?"

"It was around the time I became your Spymaster, in fact," Montalban replied, "I've been receiving reports of strange behavior but I could not substantiate them. I can only apologize for not being able to prevent his daughter's demise."

"I'll have none of that from you. If you could not have predicted this murderous outcome then none of us would have either."

"Yes well, Falconer and Blackwood did find something interesting during their investigations: Morgane's Book of Spells. And in it lies the ritual Clostworth is trying to accomplish."

"Black magic most vile," Disraeli shook his head, "Well I shall leave him in your capable hands, Spymaster. I'm sure our bright young Inquisitors can help you with that just like they have done so many times before. Speaking of which, Sir Thomas, have you told your son of our plans for him yet?"

"No," said Rotherham, "But I will tonight. He will not like being named as your successor but I might just have an idea to placate him."

Disraeli stopped and looked at him, "Oh? I doubt he would be happy either to hear that we had initially planned to have Abel succeed me as Master of the Four Orders. Tragic, his descent to madness. In any case, I am not getting any younger, gentlemen. And unless either of you want to replace me, then we had best make sure Sir William is properly informed and prepared of what is expected of him. So what is this idea of yours?"

"Well," Sir Thomas began as they neared the banquet room, "I had mentioned that my son is infatuated with a certain girl and it so happens that this young woman will also be in attendance tonight. You might even recognize her father's name in fact…"


	6. That Tingling Sensation

**That Tingling Sensation**

Banquet Hall, Oswald House Manor

* * *

><p>The three men were the object of many glances and whispers. Huddled together in a corner of the banquet room, there was a considerable space between them and the rest of the partygoers. Jealousy and respect could be seen on the eyes of the men who looked at them and a bit of fear from those who knew their true identity. The women on the other hand made no attempts to avert their gazes and some just stared at the three with frank and unabashed appraisal.<p>

"By God, I think the Earl of Aberdeen's twin daughters have born a hole on my back!"

"Oh they're not bad, William. I think I see some teeth on one of them," Simon Falconer said. He watched William grimace before turning to Henry who stood beside him in rigid form and stone faced.

"And you, Henry, are only adding to rumors already spreading about you what with your dark countenance. Every time you glare at a lady, she swoons with delight and starts whispering most excitedly with her friends."

Henry only grunted and instead faced William who was scratching the back of his head. "Well we have your father to thank for our current quandary. I'm sure he delights in planning our lives for us. Where is the charlatan anyway? Planning our wardrobe for the next twenty years perhaps?" Henry said mockingly.

Rotherham's only acknowledged son glowered and struggled to keep his voice in a controlled whisper, "_Our_ father has the Order's best interest in mind—"

"Well then maybe he should have the Order marry one of these wenches. Have her assaulted repeatedly in one of your father's disgusting orgies. I'm sure you wouldn't mind having another bastard brother that you can look down upon, Sir _Rotherham_."

"I'm getting rather tired of your incessant nagging you arrogant—"

"Nagging and arrogant? Truly, both must run in my blood then. Perhaps you should add big nosed on the list as well?"

"I'm sure I can arrange to have your nose enlarged by way of my fist—"

"Enough," Simon stepped in between his two half-brothers and smiled for the benefit of those grown curious as to what the trio were arguing about, "The vultures are watching and although I think us acting as children should be enough to scare them away, there is still the matter of the Prime Minister having arrived and kept hidden in the salon. Imagine what the papers will say about the both of you or worse, what they will say about Disraeli even though he had little to do with your altercation."

The other two said nothing for a moment until William finally sighed and said, "As if we don't have enough problems as it is. There's a murderer on the loose and our great leader steps right into his hunting grounds. The Grandmaster of the Temple killed by his intended heir; that'll do more than rattle the members of the order."

"Agents are already scouring the vicinity of the manor. Unless the Baron Clostworth can wear another's skin, he won't be joining the night's festivities. Although to be honest, I'm more worried about Madame Clostworth's well-being. She did just lose her daughter and I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that she decided not to make an appearance here. Rumors are already starting to spread about her husband's and daughter's disappearance and she's doing nothing to stop them."

"And what do you expect her to say?" Henry responded, "The woman is ruined and distraught. She's blaming the Temple for her troubles and rightfully so."

"I suppose the only way this can end well is for her to leave the country, away from Clostworth and from us," Simon said doubtfully.

"I'm already well ahead of you on that one," Henry said immediately, "I've arranged a ship to dock in South Shields. It's paid for with my own money and I've made sure the Temple doesn't know about it. The captain is a clever man and makes a living through discretion. He'll take Madame Clostworth to America or wherever the hell she wants to go. She'll disappear and the captain will make sure no one else will be able to follow her, not us or any of the Temple's cronies."

Simon looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. He glanced at William who sighed once more and also gave a nod.

"Don't worry I won't tell," William said, "I can still remember cradling Clostworth's daughter in my arms when she was a baby. She was beautiful."

The three grew quiet once more until Simon cleared his throat and exclaimed, "Enough of business! Clostworth is out there and we are in here safe and sound with Sir Rotherham's henchmen staking out every dark corner in the manor grounds. We've already surmised that Madame Clostworth is not a likely victim; even if she were, there are a dozen more Temple agents hiding behind bushes at Framwellgate Moor. And the safest place in the city right now is probably right in a room where the Prime Minister himself is standing on."

Simon sighed and continued, "Now leave our leader's well-being to the concern of others for we have more pressing issues to worry about."

"The lady Smith," William said as he glanced towards the massive staircase that took up one whole wall of the ballroom.

"Indeed," Simon smiled and clapped his hands on the others' shoulders, "While I am flattered and greatly honored to be counted as one of her potential suitors… For the sake of family, I would gladly give her over to either of you."

"Most generous of you," Henry muttered, "Should she make the mistake of choosing me over you, I will make sure to repay your generosity in kind. A missive to the Earl of Aberdeen perhaps. Anyway, where is the main attraction of the event? Typical of a woman to not appear on time."

William chuckled and said, "You can thank Elisabet's companion for this little ploy. A lady is always fashionably late, Claire would say. I'm sure she's even planned who her stepsister will be talking to, in what order, and for how long."

"Ah, the Hemingway girl," Simon looked knowingly at William, "Of the three of us you are the only one to have met both ladies. Repeatedly over the years, in fact. So what is your opinion of Miss Hemingway?"

William bristled, torn between telling the truth and lying. "She is a capable woman," he finally said, "Inherited from her real father perhaps but she is strong willed enough to determine her own path to adulthood without us intruding in it."

"A woman after mine own heart," Simon smiled, "Perhaps I should take the time to get to know her better. Do you think she prefers roses or orchids?"

William was saved the indignation of having to answer as everyone in the room hushed and craned their necks to look towards the top of the staircase. Two stunning women, one blonde and the other raven haired, had appeared from the residential wing and were now calmly surveying the party. The blonde made for the stairs first, every graceful step she took carefully measured and timed just right. As she moved, strategically placed jewels sparkled all around her, giving the illusion of an angel descending to level ground. The raven haired one was less adorned but equally regal, with her natural beauty outshining her dress.

The three most legible bachelors in England stood open mouthed in wonder, with William staring longingly at one woman and Simon mesmerized by the other. Henry meanwhile, found himself back in a familiar place with birds chirping, skirts billowing, and soft grey eyes looking at him in mock amusement. He watched as the woman, a Grass-of-Parnassus flower tucked gently onto her hair, descended from the stairs. He was troubled to find that the alien feeling he experienced back in the market had returned with even greater intensity.


	7. She Is Dangerous

**She Is Dangerous**

Banquet Hall, Oswald House Manor

* * *

><p>"Ah, to be young once more."<p>

"Indeed," Disraeli smiled at Montalban, "By god, indeed."

They were surprised at first when their entry was met with heads turned the other way. Surprise quickly turned to amusement as a cursory search revealed what held sway to everyone's attention.

A few chanced to turn their way and those same few quickly nudged the ones beside them. But everyone only became fully aware of the prime minister's presence when Elisabet, who was subtly prompted by Claire, clapped her hands in delight and strode towards the three.

"Lord Rotherham! It has been a while."

"Hello, my dear Elisabet. You have grown into a beautiful woman much like your mother was at your age," replied Sir Thomas warmly as he hugged Elisabet, "I can only apologize for not having greeted you upon arrival and also for avoiding you since then."

"Nonsense, my lord. In fact I must compliment your whole household for managing such a grand banquet despite all the unexpected intrusions you've been having."

Disraeli chuckled and made to step forward. "I hope you weren't referring to me, young lady."

"Lord Beaconsfield, I wish to introduce to you Miss Elisabet Smith and her stepsister Lady Claire Hemingway," Sir Thomas spoke.

"Beaconsfield…?" Elisabet murmured questioningly before opening her eyes wide in surprise, "The Prime Minister! Forgive me, my lord! I did not mean—"

Disraeli smiled kindly at the distressed Elisabet who was frozen in a prolonged curtsy. Claire also bowed deferentially but more so in an attempt to hide her smile. She had learned earlier of the Prime Minister's imminent arrival from the chatty housemaids. She had then accordingly tutored her sister on what Disraeli looked like, his manners, and how Elisabet should perform once they meet.

"Please, ladies. I am only a Prime Minister during the day. Right now, I am simply Sir Thomas' friend and yours too should you allow it."

"But of course!" Elisabet exclaimed as she stood upright with her bright smile returning, "Forgive my curiosity but there are so many things I've wanted to ask you about Vivian's influences on the Marquess of Carabas."

Disraeli looked at her in surprise before replying, "You have read my book? Truly, you are one pleasant surprise after another. I admit to finding it rare for a woman to have such an interest on the political machinations of my writings, fictional though they may be."

"You would be surprised at how many women read _Vivian Grey_, my lord. In fact I think women continue to contribute to society's…"

Elisabet draped an arm around the Prime Minister's and both started walking towards one of the opened balconies, though Elisabet made certain that they took a longer route where they would be seen by many as they chatted amicably like old friends.

Back to where the others remained, Montalban burst out laughing. "And just like that she establishes her superiority over every other maiden in this room. She is a dangerous mink, that one… to have the Prime Minister himself dancing to her strings."

"Men dance on their own accord. She simply sets the tune," replied Claire as the remaining three watched Elisabet and Disraeli navigate the room, "And it is not just women who can cast strings, Mister Montalban."

The other two glanced at her. "You… know who I am?" asked Montalban.

"Your efforts to make yourself unnoticeable are wasted, good sir. The chambermaids speak of your constant visits to Sir Rotherham and yet none of them could tell me the nature of those meetings. They have however informed me that you have a ring of keys which supposedly grants you access through virtually every locked door in the university grounds and perhaps even in the whole city. You have a name with no title but you enter side by side with the most prominent politician in England. You are either Abanazar to the Prime Minister's Aladdin or part of a secretive organization that governs in the shadows."

The two men exchanged glances and Sir Thomas quickly cleared his throat before replying, "Astute as always, Claire. But Montalban here is actually a policeman who acts as the government's information broker of sorts. Nothing as far-fetched as a secret organization of course but he is certainly one of the Prime Minister's most trusted confidants."

"Of course," Claire replied warmly, "Forgive me, I often overanalyze and go on rambling. I have even sometimes dreamed as if I was giving Elisabet away to some evil cult to have her be their pawn and nothing more. I can only attribute such mad thoughts from the stress gotten from preparing Elisabet for the ball."

The other two paled and fell silent while Claire continued nonchalantly, "But whatever the case, I would never place my sister in a position where she might become unhappy. Be it shadowy organisations or a cruel husband, I would make certain that her pains would be repaid in kind to those who inflicted them… But oh! Look at me ramble on once again. Forgive me good sirs."

She glanced once more at Elisabet and Disraeli who were conversing in the privacy of one of the balconies. "I think I shall follow my sister's lead and get myself some fresh air. I should probably stop fretting over her since after all…" and she glanced casually at the other two, "…she seems to be in good hands."

She then abruptly made her leave of the two gentlemen who remained frozen up until the moment when she finally vanished from sight.

"She knows of the Temple?" Montalban asked from the side of his mouth.

"I don't know," replied Sir Thomas, "But she is a very intelligent and crafty woman."

"I'll assume that's a yes then. I'm also going to assume that she knows plenty about the true purpose of this ball. Could the banker Smith also know?"

"I don't think so. If I understood Claire's subtle threat correctly, so long as we take good care of her sister she won't be jeopardizing our plans."

"Then perhaps you should reconsider matching Miss Smith with Lord Blackwood? I doubt he is the kind of 'care' that Lady Hemingway had in mind."

"Henry will pull through. And with a wife at his side, I'm sure he'll soften up and perhaps be more compliant to the Temple. He is a prominent young man after all. I'm certain Claire will approve of him."

"She's at such a young age… It seems of the two ladies, she is actually the dangerous one… Not to sound crass but will your son be able to tame her?"

"Hopefully he won't have to since I intend to write a letter to Claire's stepfather to see if he could perhaps arrange the match. I'm sure the old banker would be more than willing to do so. And that way, William gets the girl he wants, Disraeli gets his successor, the Temple gets the banks' backing, and Blackwood will perhaps learn a thing or two about get along with his fellow Order members."

"Not to mention we get the dangerous Lady Hemingway to our side. Of course, we might only end up driving Lord Blackwood further away from the Temple with this marriage. Who's to say that he'll even like Miss Smith?"

"We'll you've met Elisabet. She'll have Henry eating out of her hand in no time."

Montalban snorted, "Well that much is true… Where is the moody devil anyway?"

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

Henry Blackwood shivered as he stepped out into the cold night. Before him spread out the maze-like hedges of the manor's garden. At the middle he spotted a small pavilion that was lit up brightly with lanterns. Nodding to the guards who stood by the entrance, he entered the maze and started following the pavilion's lights.

It took him several minutes to navigate the maze and by the time he reached the center, his irritation had grown fourfold. Why people delight in designing such childish gardens, he'll never know.

The pavilion was a simple domed structure lacking any significant features save for its four pillars. At the middle of it was a long wooden bench currently occupied by the grey eyed woman. She was lying on her side with her head resting on her arm and her eyes closed in apparent slumber.

Henry quietly stepped up and kneeled beside the bench. He gently pushed away strands of bluish black hair before plucking away the flower nestled behind the woman's ears. This made the latter bolt upright in a sitting position. Before Henry could react, the woman had a small knife pointed directly under his chin.

"I didn't realize this flower had thorns."

"Be still, thief. I need only scream and the manor's guards will be upon you in a moment's notice."

"I doubt Rotherham's minions are witty enough to navigate the maze in that short a time. Besides, they would be coming to my defence instead of yours, my lady."

"You… the dandy back in the market... what are you doing here?" The knife faltered and lowered a few inches.

"Demanding reparations from my previous run in with you. And if you're referring to the ball, well… I was invited."

This time the knife dropped all the way. "You're… a nobleman?"

"I'm hurt. From what little I've heard of you I assumed that you knew every statesman's name in that ball."

"I do know their names. Just not their faces, Lord…?"

"Windsor. Of Plymouth. But please call me Henry."

"Blackwood! You're Lord Blackwood. I…"

"Yes?"

"Forgive me; I did not expect you to be so… well-mannered and young."

"You expected otherwise?"

"Well… yes. According to my source anyway."

"I'm assuming your source is William Rotherham?" Henry asked and when the other nodded, he bristled, "Pray tell what other lies did the bastard feed you?"

"Plenty I suppose. None of them nice. I guess I was too naive to realize he said them in jest."

"Oh, he wasn't jesting, Lady Hemingway. I doubt Rotherham's offspring would pass up the chance of badmouthing me."

"You don't like the Rotherhams? I thought you all close friends."

"Only to the outside world," Henry sighed, "Please let us talk of something else."

"Very well… my lord."

Henry laughed and sat beside Claire. "It seems you are cowered by the title instead of the man who wears it."

"A title, unearned or not, speaks volumes about a person. For instance, your title marks you as the fourteenth Baron of Windsor, traceable to both Peerages of England and Ireland. It is a very prestigious title. And I also recall distinctly seeing it at the top of a membership list of London's Royal Society of Knowledge. I would then say you are a scientist as much as you are a pedigreed noble."

Henry shrugged. "The truth? I was born into my role as a noble. But my being a man of knowledge, I chose willingly."

"And in what areas do you apply said knowledge?"

"I doubt you'd find it interesting. Morbid as it sounds, I have developed an interest in the study of cadavers. Humans, animals, and even plants."

"Forensic pathology then. I don't suppose you're actually finding ways to raise the dead?"

Henry chuckled, "Quite the contrary. I instead try to keep the dead from rising up."

"What do you mean?"

"Forgive me, I babble," Henry said quickly. He silently reprimanded himself for the slip as he faced Claire.

"And what about you? You can't keep watch over you sister forever you know."

"That, I'm well aware of. Which is why I am determined that she marry the right person. A distinguished man with title and proper breeding… perhaps a man like yourself?" Claire smiled.

"Ha! I think I have enough people trying to push me into marriage without you joining the fray, thank you very much. Though if I may be so bold my lady, shouldn't a woman of stature such as yourself be inside the manor 'mingling' instead of being out here in solitude? If you can find a good man for your sister then you should have no trouble finding one for yourself."

"I have other plans. Plans that I'll take into action once I get my sister properly squared off. I have no intention of getting married quite just yet," Claire replied as she stood up and dusted her skirts. Henry had to blink twice as her knife vanished within the folds of her dress.

"Although I am serious about what I said, my lord. I think you would like my sister very much."

"And I was also serious when I said that you would have no trouble finding a proper man."

Claire laughed her musical laugh as she stepped out of the pavilion. "I will make you a deal then, Lord Blackwood! I will go out and find someone to marry if you go and do the same yourself. And you won't get a better offer than my sister!"

She then abruptly swiveled around and entered the maze. Henry quickly made to follow but soon lost her after a minute of mindless wandering. It took him longer to find his way back to the entrance but he was surprised to find himself not the least bit irritated.

He spotted a guest conversing with the guards and he walked over to see what they were talking about.

"Yes, she had black hair."

"In that case sir, the woman you seek has already gone back into the manor. But I believe her companion is still in the garden."

"Companion? What companion?"

"Here he comes now, sir," said the guard as he inclined a head towards the approaching Henry.

"Henry!"

"Hello, William. What are you doing here?"

"I would ask you the same thing," the other replied coldly.

"I was just out for a stroll. I thought I'd enjoy the cool air… and smell the flowers," Henry said nonchalantly before bringing up the Grass-of-Parnassus to his nose. He breathed in deep and with much exaggeration as he brushed past the stone-faced William.


End file.
